False Accusations

by Alan Jacobson

  There were two people dressed in business attire sitting in the lobby of Stanton’s plush suite, patiently awaiting appointments with him. Chandler walked in and announced his arrival to the secretary, an attractive thirty-year-old with a headset affixed to her ear. She nodded to him, asked him to have a seat, and alerted Stanton that Chandler had arrived.

  A moment later, she led him back. Stanton was on the phone and motioned to Chandler to have a seat.

  “I’m faxing it right now.” He punched a couple of keys on his computer, then said, “Sure, drop me an email once you’ve had a chance to review it. Or we can Skype, yes.”

  “Sorry,” Stanton said as he hung up the phone. “Client in China. An American company attempting to open a branch and expand their distribution. They already have a presence in Europe—but you didn’t come here to discuss my business.”

  “Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Chandler said. “The case for my client is coming together nicely, but the icing on the cake would be your testimony. We need it to establish motive.”

  “I spoke with my attorney, as I told you I would. He recommended against getting involved. He said I paid a lot of money to put the incident behind me, and that’s precisely what I should do. I shouldn’t stick my nose in any more sexual harassment suits. Especially as a witness.”

  “Oh, this isn’t sexual harassment, Mr. Stanton. It’s murder.”

  Stanton sat forward in his seat. “Murder? How does Brittany Harding fit into a murder case?”

  “We have evidence and reason to believe that she killed two people and is trying to frame my client for it. If convicted, he could be facing life imprisonment.” He looked at Stanton’s face: his brows were furrowed and his mouth agape. Chandler was getting through.

  “She’d falsely accused him of raping her a few months back, and then demanded a payment of fifty thousand dollars. Like you, he decided it was better to pay than suffer the publicity it would generate. But that wasn’t enough for her. She sent a copy of the check to his wife, violating the agreement she’d made with him, and his attorney forced her attorney—Movis Ehrhardt—to return the money. Harding was furious, and framed him with this murder.

  “The evidence against my client is all circumstantial, but it may just be enough to convince a jury. Your testimony as to her prior conduct and behavior will establish a pattern and fit well with what we have on her so far.”

  Stanton shifted in his seat. “Murder,” he said. His telephone intercom buzzed. “Mr. Stanton, Judy Myers on line four.”

  “Take a message and tell her I’ll call her back in ten minutes.”

  “You also have Ms. Bieles and Mr. Canvir waiting.”

  “Okay, Amanda,” he said, a slight edge to his voice. “Then tell Judy I’ll call her back in an hour.”

  He arose from behind his desk and walked over to one of the paintings on his wall. As he removed it, a safe was visible; he began spinning the tumbler, placing his body between the wheel and Chandler’s line of sight. Chandler looked away obligingly. Stanton fumbled around in the safe, pulled out a DVD, and handed it to Chandler.

  “What’s this?”

  “My meeting with Harding, when I gave her the check. I got her to talk about the payoff, why she was doing this to me. She admitted it was all for the money. She said I could afford it, and aside from being out the money, no harm would come to me. Watch it. It’s all there. Pretty damning, if you ask me.”

  Chandler was struck speechless by his good luck. “Why’d you film it?” he finally managed.

  “Just in case she tried to extort more from me in the future. You know, a bimonthly occurrence, like drawing a paycheck.”

  “Why didn’t your attorney handle the transaction?”

  “He said I should do it. He had some private investigator come in and set up a tiny camera, right there,” he said, nodding to a tall, leafy plant. “He was watching the whole thing go down on a monitor in another room down the hall. Handled it all by wireless remote.”

  Chandler liked this attorney, whoever he was. Knew how to play ball.

  “Take it, make a copy of it. Just don’t lose it. I should’ve made a copy of it a long time ago, but never got around to it. I don’t have a DVD burner at the office.”

  Chandler was reluctant to take responsibility for it, but he was too curious to see what was on it to turn it down. “I’ll get it back to you right away,” he said. “About testifying...”

  “The video should be sufficient.”

  Not wanting to walk out the door without the disc, Chandler decided to back off. If need be, Hellman could subpoena Stanton to testify. Not the best way to treat a witness you needed for your case, but an option nonetheless. At this point, the judge still had to rule on the admissibility of the evidence. If he threw it all out as being unduly prejudicial, Stanton’s story would never make it to the courtroom.

  He stood, dwarfed by Stanton’s six-foot-five frame, and they shook hands.

  Upon returning to Hellman’s office, Chandler informed him of the Stanton video. Although there was a client waiting, they took the disc into the conference room and watched it.

  The date was displayed in the lower-right comer of the screen. It was recorded a little more than two years ago. The camera angle was adequate, showing Harding without question; same auburn hair, slightly different cut. Stanton maneuvered himself behind her for a moment while he was removing something from the credenza behind her chair—a checkbook. He looked straight into the camera.

  Good so far. He sat down behind his desk and opened the check register to a clean page while they chatted about how this was capital he needed to keep the company afloat.

  “You’ll find a way to keep it running,” she said. “You’ve eliminated my salary.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, taking his pen off the check, as if the completion of the transaction were contingent upon her response.

  “Because I deserve more than to be fired.”

  “Laid off, Brittany, laid off. There’s a difference. I didn’t have a choice. You weren’t singled out—I’ve eliminated all nonessential personnel.”

  She sat straight up, her jaw tight and her eyes narrow. “I’m nonessential, huh?”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “Oh, yes it is.”

  “Technically, I’m the only essential person in this company. Without me, there is no company. The same can’t be said about you. It was not meant as a reflection on you or your abilities.”

  “Well, you won’t miss the fifty grand. It’s only money. You’ll get over it.”

  “But sexual harassment. Jesus, couldn’t you have thought of something else?”

  “It perks people’s ears up. It got your attention.”

  “But it’s flat-out lying. It’s extortion.”

  “You do what you need to do to keep surviving, I do what I need to do. If you want to call it extortion, fine.” She crossed her legs and threw her head back, using a finger to help sweep the hair off her face. “If it makes you feel better, think of it as a business transaction. I’m launching a new career.” Her eyes sparkled in the light that was peering through the blinds behind Stanton’s desk.

  Stanton began to write again. He swirled his pen, scrawling what appeared to be his signature. He was obviously satisfied with what he had gotten on the video. “How much of this does your attorney get?”

  “Too much,” she said. “But I don’t suppose you would have agreed to it if he wasn’t involved.” Stanton did not say anything. “Then again, it would have been your word against mine in court. I say you fondled me, you say you didn’t. Who do you think the jury would’ve believed?” Her eyes brightened. “Then again, by the time it got to a jury, you’d be out of business. Much cleaner this way for you...but obviously, you already know that or you wouldn’t be writing that check.”

  “A lie, that’s what this check is. Fifty thousand lies.”

  “It cashes and spends the same way.”r />
  He ripped the check off his register and threw it on the desk in front of him. “I can honestly say I regret the day I hired you, Brittany. One of the worst business decisions of my career.”

  “It certainly paid off for me.” She smiled, rose from her chair, and walked out the door. Stanton turned to the camera, his face a crumpled picture of anger. Then the screen went black.

  Hellman ejected the DVD. “Damn good work, Chandler. Damn good.”

  “Think the judge will let it in?”

  “Don’t know. But I can tell you this. If your cigarette DNA comes up positive for Harding, the video will help persuade him to issue a search warrant for a blood sample and a few strands of Harding’s hair.”

  Chandler nodded. “We need to make a copy of this, get it back to Stanton.”

  “I’ll have someone run it over to my copy service company. They can duplicate it for us.”

  “I thought they only did documents and x-rays.”

  “And DVDs,” Hellman said.

  “Have them make an extra disc for Stanton. That’s his only copy, so be careful with it.” He arose from his chair. “I’ve got some personal things to deal with, so I’m heading back to New York in a few hours. I think I’ve got everything squared away.”

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Hellman said. “We probably won’t need you out here until we get the DNA stuff sorted out.”

  “If I turn anything else up before I leave, I’ll call you.”

  Hellman extended his hand. “You’ve been a jewel, Chandler. Thanks.”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things over the years, but I don’t remember anybody ever calling me a jewel.”

  Chandler had been resting, attempting to grab a short nap before leaving for the airport. However, he was unable to fall asleep: thoughts of Denise consumed him. It was the first time it had actually hit him—what if the lump really was cancer? It would change their lives forever. To begin with, deciding which treatment she should receive would be a difficult decision. Medical science offered more than one approach, but it was unclear which was best on a long-term basis—and there were no guarantees. The wrong decision could be deadly. You did not get a second chance to catch the disease in its early stages, which is a must for a successful cure regardless of the treatment method selected.

  Finally, at some point he settled into a light sleep.

  Shortly after awakening, he splashed his face with some cold water and checked in with Denise. She was feeling more at ease, having had a couple of days to put everything into perspective. “I realized it’s ridiculous to decide on my fate before I’ve had an exam and an appropriate workup.”

  “I agree with you a hundred percent. We shouldn’t worry about something that’s not yet a problem.” He told her he had been thinking of her, and that they would be together soon.

  After hanging up, he realized that their thoughts had taken them in opposite directions: she had been able to put her mind at ease, while he had succeeded in raising his blood pressure. Regardless, he was glad she was now approaching it optimistically.

  Chandler packed his clothes and scanned his list of follow-up notes. As he wrote down a few thoughts, a sudden wave of exhaustion struck him. He launched into a sustained yawn and tossed his pad onto the bed. Although the clock on the wall read 8:30 P.M., it was 11:30 New York time. With a six-hour red-eye flight only an hour and a half away, he accepted the fact that he would be fighting fatigue for the next couple of days.

  He stood up to stretch and invigorate his tired limbs, then called Johnny Donnelly to inquire about his success in locating the checkout clerk.

  “Old Ronald’s proving a bit hard to find, even for a snoop like me, Junior.”

  “What have you got?” he asked, stifling another yawn.

  “Checked DMV. Nothing. He ain’t applied for a license.”

  “Probably just using his California license. Checked the post office, no one seen him come by his box. Mailed him a note to call me, told him there was a reward. Didn’t say how much. I’ll give him a five spot if he presses me on it. You’ll owe me five, Junior.”

  Chandler laughed. “What about parents, anyone else by his name in town or the surrounding areas?”

  “No one. If he’s got family, they got a different last name. Could sure use a picture of the guy though.”

  “Wish I had one, but I don’t. What about the unemployment agency, state disability, local hospitals?”

  “That’s on the plate for tomorrow. You know me, Junior. I’m up till four in the morning, but nobody else seems to like that schedule.”

  Chandler told him he would call tomorrow when he returned to New York; he gathered up his suitcase and got ready to leave for the airport.

  Madison watched the copy of the Stanton video with Leeza that evening once the boys had been put to bed.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” she said.

  Madison nodded absentmindedly, the pun lost on him. “It’ll probably be inadmissible in court, and the bogus evidence against me will still be hanging over my head. Not to mention all the legal hurdles we need to overcome and the fact that my practice is a shambles. But in spite of all that...I feel good.”

  “You needed the emotional lift,” she said, resting in his arms and running her fingers through his hair.

  “What matters to me most, Lee, is that we’re together. Not just physically, but emotionally. It’s hard to believe it took such an incredible run of events to show me what we’ve been missing the past few years.”

  “Better that you realized it now, rather than years down the line. It’s not too late to make changes.”

  Madison sighed. “Whether or not it’s too late remains to be seen.”

  CHAPTER 50

  MANHATTAN WAS ONE OF THOSE places that, with rare exception, was considerably less attractive following a snowstorm. Unlike the Sierra or the Andes Mountains, where the snow accentuated the natural beauty of the surroundings, snow in Manhattan quickly turned to gray and black slush, with some yellow sprinkled in here and there from a dog whose bladder needed relief.

  On most of the busiest side streets, mounds of snow lay piled against the curb, the result of a snowplow’s pass earlier that morning. Those people whose cars were parked at the curb would find an unanticipated wall of hard-packed snow holding their vehicles prisoner. The sight of angry businessmen and -women in suits heaving the frozen white stuff away from their cars with folding shovels at the end of a long workday was not an unusual one in certain parts of the city. Those who were fortunate to be able to commute by subway, bus, or cab enjoyed a definite advantage.

  As the cars swished by on the densely trafficked venues, a light rain fell. In the past, whenever the temperature fell into the teens, thin sheets of ice coated the sidewalks—and caused an unusually high number of people to report to emergency rooms or chiropractic offices with slip-and-fall injuries.

  This morning, Denise had taken Noah to day care. She and Chandler made plans to meet for brunch at ten o’clock to give him time to check in at the office and deal with the imminent tongue-lashing he was likely to receive from Hennessy.

  “I hate driving in the city,” Chandler said to the Iranian man who was weaving in and out of traffic with the reckless abandon of a seasoned New York City cabbie. “It’s like a war fought without guns. People use their cars to take out their aggression.”

  The taxi driver, periodically launching into a barrage of vile language aimed at certain vehicles he cut off en route to his destination, curtailed the expletives long enough to agree with his passenger. “I consider myself a soldier, a soldier who wins most of his battles. That is why I get you where you want to go on time,” he said, pulling up at the Police Academy building on East 20th Street.

  After he paid the man and exited the cab, Chandler ascended the slush-covered steps of the square, gray-brick building that had been built in the 1970s. He paused at the doorway and filled his lungs with cold air. It felt good to be home again, on his o
wn turf.

  Inside, he walked across the slate entryway, glancing over at the glass-enclosed academy gymnasium. He flashed on his days in training, when he was young and eager to graduate and become a beat cop. That was before he moved to California to put distance between himself and his father. He shook his head at the irony that left him showing up on his dad’s doorstep nearly ten years later, disabled and without a job.

  He took the elevator to the eighth floor and waved at Nick in the evidence lab. Nick gestured for him to come answer a question. Shouting that he would be hack in a little while, Chandler proceeded down the hall and stopped outside the door of his boss. “Capt. James Hennessy” was lettered in black on the dimpled glass. He grabbed the dented brass knob, twisted it, and braced for the worst.

  Hennessy was seated behind his fifty-year-old wooden desk, which was mounded with papers. A dim fluorescent fixture hung from the ceiling and a half-eaten sandwich in crumpled tinfoil lay on the desk next to an open bottle of Yoo-Hoo chocolate drink. A steady stream of hot air blew up from the grating in front of the window on the far wall, where files were piled into not-so-neat stacks.

  Hennessy, a man just shy of five feet and in excess of 175 pounds, looked up and saw Chandler as he walked through the door. “Chandler, you fuckin’ asshole. You just waltz in here and expect to pick up where you left off? Is that what you expect? Leave me to answer for your whereabouts with Gianelli while you’re out sunning yourself on the beach in California? You dick-faced cock. Nick’s been working double tours trying to get your work done. Do you care? Nah, you ain’t got the goddamned balls enough to care. All you care about is yourself.”

  Chandler calmly sat in the metal chair in front of the desk. “Are you finished?”

  “Yeah, I’m finished.”